


Mindfuck Tangent

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama/Romance, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 06:27:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/794896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tangental story to Jen Riddler's The BS Factor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mindfuck Tangent

Well, I woke up this morning with this in my head, and had to write it down.... It's a tangent from The BS Factor, as the title implies. :) 

Thanks to Jen for the incredible inspiration, and for permission to post this -- I just can't keep my mind away from it! 

Ann 

Disclaimer -- I haven't watched the pilot but twice, and not in a few weeks, so my memory of the 'canon' events is quite certainly off. 

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. 

## Mindfuck Tangent

by Ann Teitelbaum  


Jim paced around the loft, getting more and more frustrated. That Sandburg kid had been a real crackpot, but he also seemed to be the only one who actually believed him when he'd said he had this stuff going on. He turned and looked out the window at the balcony, trying to see what had moved out there in the dark. After a moment, he realized that it hadn't been an intruder -- it had been a plant, leaves blowing against the glass, sounding like... whatever. 

Shaking his head, he realized that even though the kid may be a crackpot, it probably wouldn't hurt to check in with him. He'd claimed he could help manage this stuff, and that was more than anyone at the hospital had given him. Digging the card out of his pocket, he picked up the phone.   
  


* * *

  


He let the kid in, watching him drop a heavy backpack on the floor as Jim pushed the door closed. God, all that energy, and ten thousand ideas bouncing around in his brain.... If Jim were having trouble containing real things, what must this kid do to contain _thoughts_? 

"So, what are you having the most trouble with?" the kid was asking, surreptitiously nosing around the room. 

"What?" Jim asked, trying not to bristle at having his privacy invaded. It had been better than going to wherever the hell the kid lived; not to mention the fact that Jim wasn't sure he'd feel safe driving tonight, the way he was feeling. 

"What's doing the most impinging? Sounds, I'd guess, right? You can close your eyes, but you can't shut your ears, am I right?" 

Jim stopped and thought. "Yes," he found himself admitting. "That and some smells, sometimes. It's usually not so bad, just a matter of taking another shower or something. Yeah, sounds, it's like everything is right next to me, startling me." 

The kid nodded happily, shepherding Jim over to sit on the couch, taking a seat on the coffee table in front of him. "Okay, first things first -- take a deep breath," he said, in a lecturing tone of voice. 

"Look, Chief, I've been breathing all night, all my life, in fact; let's cut to the chase, okay?" 

Blair rolled his eyes, slumping a bit. "Look, you've been prowling around here all night like a caged animal, right?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued, "Adrenaline is just cranking you up _more_, making you more hyper-sensitive. All this is going to do is try to relieve some of that adrenaline overload, which in itself should help your symptoms." Seeing the grudging acceptance of the idea, he again directed, "Take a deep breath -- from your solar plexus -- imagine your chest cavity like a balloon, filling, filling.... Okay, now let it out slowly, and keep letting it out, all of it, all the way out.... And again, slow and deep, breathing in...." 

It did seem to be working, but whether that was a result of the breathing stuff or simply having something else to concentrate on, Jim wasn't sure. But the tremor in his hands was fading off, and he did feel some better. 

"Now, I'm going to walk behind you," Blair announced as he rose, Jim's gaze following him. "A lot of what I'm going to be working with you on is meditation and concentration exercises, ways to manage the sensory input that you're getting." 

The kid's hands landed gently on his shoulders, beginning a light massage. As he continued to talk, hands moving from his shoulders to his temples and back again from time to time, Jim listened, relaxing as he tried to go with some of the explanations. 

"I want you to visualize a control board in front of you, one with five dials. Each of those dials is one of your senses. There's sight, and sound, and there's smell, and taste, and touch.... Okay? Now if you look, all those dials are set pretty high... I want you to try concentrating on one sense, let's try smell. Look at the dial, and concentrate on what you're smelling in the room right now." Blair gave him a moment, then instructed, "Now, try turning the dial down -- that's your sensitivity, and as you turn it down, you'll smell fewer things, and you won't smell them as strongly." A pause. "Where was the dial set before?" 

"Nine," Jim mumbled, eyes closed, trying to see if it had worked. 

"And now?" 

"Five," Jim said, not sure if anything had changed. 

"And what do you smell now?" 

"You," came the reply. Jim took a deep breath. "Me. Dinner. Yeah, I guess it _is_ better," he realized, opening his eyes. "It _did_ tone it down," he admitted, pleased and relieved -- for the first time, he'd had some kind of positive effect from all this. Closing his eyes again, he demanded, "Let me do the sound...."   
  


* * *

  


Jim awoke with a start, gasping for air. Sitting up straight, he looked around, reassuring himself he was at home, and not at that... facility. He'd been kidnapped by the government, used as a guinea pig, and the one who had taken him in was... Blair. Grant. This kid. 

Jim looked over at the _kid_ (*if that's anywhere near the truth*, he couldn't help thinking), asleep in the armchair, a pen loosely held in one hand, a yellow pad of paper balanced on one leg. Jim reached out and grabbed the notes, moving clear of the other man's reach, determined not to underestimate him. 

Blair woke, grabbing reflexively at the pad of paper, looking warily at Jim's expression as he skimmed the notes Blair had made. 'The subject' this, 'the subject' that.... 

"Where were you born?" Jim asked, quietly. 

Confused, Blair answered, "Berkeley California. What's going on, man?" 

"Do you smoke, _Blair_?" Jim demanded. 

Shaking his head, Blair responded, "Not tobacco," a small smile on his face, his voice surprisingly even. 

"Tell me your name!" 

"My name's Blair Sandburg," came the reassuring voice, the smaller man moving to stand. "I came here to help you with your senses, remember?" 

Backing away, Jim grabbed for his gun, bringing it up to bear on the now-still man. "Tell me your name," he demanded coldly. 

Blair sat back down in the chair, keeping his hands still. "My name is Blair Sandburg." 

Jim was somehow pleased that the kid was starting to sound concerned. Well, the _subject_ was proving harder to control than he'd counted on, wasn't he? 

"I came here because _you_ called _me_, do you remember that? You wanted my help with your hearing, remember?" 

"Shut up!" Jim cried, realizing that for a moment the kid had really sounded sincere, a tremble of fear in his voice. "You put a hypnotic suggestion in there already, didn't you, you bastard? The sound of your voice. Didn't you?!" As the other man's eyes grew wide, Jim began to approach him. "What's your real name, _Blair_?" When he got no reply, he tried again, "What's your real name? _Grant_," he accused. 

"My name is Blair Sandburg," he whispered, and Jim couldn't take it any longer; the memory of sitting in a wheelchair, being told by this man that he had no future, and that things were only going to get worse, overwhelmed him. He raised his hand and backhanded him with the gun butt, taking a savage pride in the shock on that face as he fell over backward, chair and all. 

The kid finally reacted then, scrambling to roll away; Jim hit him again, this time on the back of the head, and that was that.   
  


* * *

  


Blair woke up to a killer headache, and tried to roll over, only then finding himself sitting up in a chair, his hands handcuffed behind him. It was morning, and the Sentinel he'd found was on the phone across the room, talking to someone about sodium pentathol. 

When the big man hung up, Blair asked the first thing he could think of. "Can I call the University, please?" 

The big man stalked over to him, and Blair tried not to flinch. "Why? To leave a coded message about the mission having gone wrong? I don't think so, Chief." 

Blair sighed, looking down, trying not to antagonize the man. His senses were obviously feeding some kind of paranoia, and it was just a matter of stalling him off until the guy's friends or co-workers came by to check on him... he hoped. "I'd like to let the department secretary know that I won't be in to teach my classes today," he offered as explanation. Trying to let the man know he wasn't a threat to him. 

Jim stood there a moment, then nodded. "_I'll_ call." 

Blair told him the phone number, then watched as the man got out a phone book, looking it up for himself. Going through the switchboard, he left the message, his voice still twisting the name "Blair".   
  


* * *

  


Blair startled at a knock on the door, hoping, praying. A tall black man came in, seeming startled by the sight of him. "Jim, what the hell is goin' on here? Who the hell is that?" 

"That's exactly what I'm going to find out," Jim declared, taking the satchel the other man had brought. "Thanks, Simon, I'll see you later." 

"No way, Jim; I'm not leaving until I find out what the hell all this is about." 

Blair sent up a thank you. 

"Fine," Jim dismissed, striding over to Blair's chair. Roughly pulling up one sleeve from behind him, Jim pulled out a hypodermic needle, and began filling it from a vial. As he slid the needle into Blair's arm, he murmured, "Now we'll find out for sure, Grant. And don't worry; I'll at least have the decency to kill you quickly. Not like what you have planned for me." 

Blair just stared at him as he felt the drug wash over him. He felt his head slumping forward, and felt a strong hand grab his hair, wrenching his head back. A rush of air at his ear brought the demand again. "What's your name?" 

"B... Blair Michelangelo Sandburg." 

"What's your rank?" Blair frowned, not sure how to answer. The hand pulled at his hair again. "Rank!" 

"I... I'm a grad student at Ranier University." He hoped that was close enough. 

A loud sigh blew down his neck and across his chest. "How old are you?" 

"Twenty-six." 

"Isn't that a little _young_ to be a grad student?" 

"I graduated in '91, and got my Master's in '93; I was twenty-four. It's... not that young." 

He felt the hand loosen in his hair. Then another hand moved to his throat, not choking, just threatening to. He felt his eyes begin to fill. "Please," he whispered, his body floating in limbo, held only by that hand at his throat. 

"Please what?" came the deep voice he'd been focused on. 

He licked his lips. "Please don't kill me," he whispered. "I can help you, I know I can help you." 

The voice challenged, sardonically, "_Help_? Is that what you call it? My tax dollars at work?" 

The hand tightened a little, and Blair found himself swallowing just to feel if he could. He felt the tears begin to trail down his cheeks. 

"_You_, Mister Grant Morrison, are the reason I got out of the damned government; killing your own people because it's the expedient thing to do! Who else knows about me?!" 

"Kn... knows about you? Um, the doctor you saw, and Jennifer, she's the one who saw your chart. Larry knows, he's staying with me.... I think that's all, but maybe the hospital knows, I don't know who you told...." 

"Who else? Who do you work for?" 

"Doctor Albright is my dissertation advisor. I haven't told her yet, 'cause I just met you, and I wanted to make sure you didn't mind if I told her your name...." 

"Jim, what's going on here?" That was the other man, the other voice. 

"Please," Blair called out, afraid as the hand tightened against his throat again. "Please don't let him kill me." 

The deep, dark voice came closer. "Why would he kill you?" 

"B... because he's on overload, he's losing control of his senses, and that's making him paranoid." He felt the hand move on his throat, and blurted out, "I know I can help you!" He knew he was beginning to cry, but also knew that he had to continue. "Every Sentinel I've ever studied has had a period of self-doubt, but this stuff _does_ exist, and you _are_ hearing things, and smelling things, but they're not there to hurt you! And _I'm_ not going to hurt you!" He took a moment to gasp for breath. "I... I think I'm falling in love with you.... And I want to help you, if you'll let me.... Please.... Please let me help you...." 

He felt a heavy hand fall from his throat, to rest on his chest, letting him feel his own sobs. He felt a warm face rest against his wet cheek, then the other man pulled him away, saying, "Come on, Jim, come here and sit down." Then hands uncuffed him, and he moved to wipe his own face, looking around for Jim. Seeing him on the sofa, slumped there dejectedly, Blair moved to him, kneeling on the floor beside him. He reached out to take the man's hand, holding it loosely, and said, "I won't let anything happen to you, I _promise_."   
  


* * *

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